Horizons
by TheIncredibleNutmeg
Summary: Life was predictable-that is, until Arthur's freshman year of college and the unruly Alfred F. Jones became his roommate. Sparks fly. Chaos ensues. And Arthur finds himself changing. Suddenly, life isn't so predicable anymore.  US/UK   AU
1. Chapter 1

**Horizons**

"_Dusk, is just an illusion, because the sun is either above the __horizon__ or below it. And that means that day and night are linked in a way that few things are; there cannot be one without the other, yet they cannot exist at the same time. How would it feel, I remember wondering, to be always together, yet forever apart?_" – Nicholas Sparks

**One**

I stood in the driveway, my eyes lingering on the structure that had been my home for the past eight years of my life. It wasn't special by any means—a slightly smaller than average house, probably one of the smallest on the block. Pastel yellow in color, blue shutters, and a windowsill box filled with dirt and withered brown objects (Mum never was particularly skillful with gardening). By comparison, the size certainly served its purpose compared to the cramped flat in London which I was born and raised in. And then it hit me.

This was the last time I would see home for a very long while.

A breeze swept in, rustling the leaves of the tall oaks lining the street: the last sweet notes of summer. Cicadas hummed along in tune, and the sun hung lazily in the sky behind mounds of fluffy white clouds. I stared vacantly at my house. So many memories had come and gone, and at the age of eighteen, it stood as a former husk; an empty shell, void of my childhood.

"Isn't this exciting? Your first year at university…"

I turned, the words coming from my mother: a fifty-something native Englishwoman with a head of neatly styled, graying auburn hair. She smiled, the crow's feet around her eyes deepening. The smile had a melancholy air about it. It was the kind of smile that instead of revealing the young, beautiful woman inside her made her appear older than she actually was. Frail, almost.

"Mum," I breathed, choking back any feelings that were turning up my insides. "Please-"

The rest of my sentence was smothered by her arms reaching around me. "I know, dear. I just can't believe after all these years—you're not a little boy anymore." The scent of her heavy perfume flooded my nostrils, traces of lilacs and honey. She pulled away, holding my cheeks in her hands and carefully observing me one last time as if I were headed off to war and not to college. "Oh Arthur, I still remember when I could hold you—"

"_Mum_. Really—there's no need to get sentimental about it," I stressed. A loosened piece of asphalt sat idly by my left food. I nudged it a bit with my toe. _Like a plaster, Arthur, the quicker, the better, _I reminded myself. "Well…see you in three and a half months."

I expected a long, tearful goodbye from her: how sorely I would be missed, how my mother wished my father could be here to see me off (but he couldn't because you know, Arthur, he is working really hard). Instead, I received that same melancholy smile. Without words, so much as an "I love you" I brushed past my mother and struggled to squeeze into my car. The inside of the vehicle was packed tightly with boxes, and I could barely manage my way inside. A sleeve dangling off a stack of magazines obscured my view, and I swatted it away before turning the car on. It took three attempts before The Beast howled to life. I pulled out of the drive, and then from my side mirror watched as my former life disappeared behind me.

Driving out of the suburbs of Chicago, you tend to notice the spacing of towns increase exponentially. About twenty minutes into the drive through a dense cluster of towns, there is nothing but corn as far as the eye can see. And as far as anyone is concerned, corn is by far the least stimulating thing to look at. Illinois is flat and full of the stuff. In the country, the horizon stretches as far out as the eye can see, unbridled from the lack of trees and buildings. Just wide, open farmland filled with corn.

To make an effort to stifle my boredom, I flipped on the radio (also to block out the gawd-awful roar of The Beast) to which I was greeted with the typical, screechy, four chord pop song that gets stuck in your head, and you'd sooner want to bash your skull into a concrete wall after you heard it. So I turned the dial: static, Spanish, country, Spanish, Spanish, polka, static, and more cookie-cutter modern music. I could have kicked myself for not keeping my fucking ipod unpacked.

"Right then," I noted as I powered off the radio. Without any music to muffle it, the car's engine was restored to its deafening volume, worsened by the open window. A closed window could have easily improved the sound, but the air conditioning inside the bloody Jetta has been broken for God knows how long. The heat, despite being only ten in the morning, was unbearable. My shirt had seemed to permanently fix itself to my skin, using back-sweat like it was crazy glue.

I soon grew weary of the sour notes emitting from the engine of The Beast. My car was a 1990 Volkswagen Jetta GL, but my friend Kiku had nicknamed it "The Beast" because the muffler was broken and something was wrong with the engine (we didn't have the money to get it fixed.) So the car always sounded like a wild animal, hissing and sputtering and growling. Its previous owner must have been a chain smoker too, because no matter how thoroughly we scrubbed the interior down, it always smelled faintly of an ash tray. Anyways, the rickety engine got annoying—possibly even more so than the radio, so I switched back. I supposed the music wasn't all too bad. I actually found my leg bouncing up and down to the rhythm of a few songs.

The three hour drive seemed more like a six or ten hour ordeal until I finally spotted the exit sign for Whitmore University. I wiped my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and tried to calm down my windblown hair. The brunt of the driving was over. Yet like a tide, anxiety quickly rolled in to replace my short-lived relief. It was if as every single doubt, question, and idea was armed with pointed sticks in a collective mass and decided to wage a full-blown, all-out bombardment on my defenseless brain. My insides churned and I found myself wondering if I had made the right decision to come down here. _Foolish feelings, Arthur_. I kept reiterating this to myself, gripping the steering wheel tightly until the tops of my knuckles turned white. I continued to drive for awhile, passing farmsteads with white picket fences and fields full of cows lazily feeding on grass until a sign greeted me on my right.

Peculiar Illinois "Where the 'odds' are with you"—_home to Whitmore University!_

As it turns out, there is nothing peculiar about Peculiar Illinois. Peculiar was your typical country town: a Walmart surrounded by a collection of strip malls and subdivisions surrounded by farmland. The small exception of oddities in Peculiar was a dinner I passed on the way to campus called Oily Bob's. Oily Bob's claim to fame was world's best frozen custard, and a "Goliath Burger" (at least that's what the sign said). Judging from the name alone, such a restaurant would give you a heart attack just by looking at the menu.

Twelve minutes down a winding road and I reached Whitmore College. I stared out my window, the scene before me almost surreal. The blocks surrounding the campus were already flooded with students: chattering circles of sorority girls, people carrying in furniture that obscured their vision as they walked. The first sign welcoming me to the college was one of many. I passed others that read variations of _welcome freshman_ and _go wolves_! These ones seemed to litter the campus lots, trees, buildings—it seemed there was no wrong spot for a sign, including one plastered to an overflowing dumpster behind the athletic complex.

I made a right, passing the main cluster of academic buildings, the cafeteria, and the quad. The next street over sat a complex of buildings with gray walls and blue tinted windows, which was labeled "Dormitories A – D". The Beast complained as it rolled into the parking lot, which was packed with other cars and students. I just managed to fit into a spot where some jerk had parked six inches over the yellow line. I momentarily cursed the DMV for handing out licenses as if they were stickers children receive for visiting the dentist. The checkup goes well (like taking your exam) but the instant they leave, they are cramming snack cakes into their greedy little mouths (that is to say, said drivers return to a state of complete irresponsibility).

The clock on my dashboard kindly served as a reminder as to the small time frame I had between now and the appointment my Mum had kindly arranged with a guidance counselor, for reasons which still eluded me. I supposed it would be more practical to move my belongings later. What little precious door space remained was currently preoccupied by people trying to pass through with oversized lamps and tellies, and other things you wouldn't expect a reasonable person to drag along with them, but they had. As I exited the Jetta, a gangly blond boy passed me with a giant inflatable flamingo. My thick eyebrows rose into an arch, watching the young man haul the tacky pink object across the lot. Perhaps college life was as bizarre and wild as they had made it out to be on television.

With an intention to set out for a bit of exploring, I withdrew a map of the campus that had been folded neatly into my front pocket. The paper was slightly worse for wear, dampened by sweat. The library, as it turned out, was just on the other side of the quad, a straight shot across the street from my dormitory. That seemed like the first place I ought to familiarize myself with. I stowed the map back in my pocket, making sure that the creases fell back into their proper place and set off.

During my walk, I allowed my gaze to shift from the path before me, casually observing fellow students interacting with one another. In high school, I supposed I could have been considered somewhat of a loner. It's not that I resented the other kids, nor did they really resent me. When it came to having friends, I simply did not care one way or the other. I was always studying or reading or helping Mum out because Dad was never around.

Call me what you will: boring, monotonous, a prude—but my life had _order_. There was a structure to it, a rock-like foundation that brought me a great sense of security. Granted it was the same day to day, but I always knew what was expected of me and I always knew what was coming next. Anything sporadic, spontaneous I loathed. Such things broke the very precise, systematic life I led.

And it was on that day, my first day of college, my seemingly solid foundation crumbled to dust.

Before I had even registered the shouting, a great force slammed into my chest knocking me flat on my bum. "Hurry up cock-suckers!"

"Why the hell did we do that?"

"Did you see the look on her face? _Pur-riiice-less_!"

"No, you imbecile, I was too busy running!"

"Whatever, just run like hell—Antonio's the closest, so go there."

The voices calling out were far ahead of me: two guys, one with short, silver blond hair and the other with shoulder length curly blond hair; sprinting in the opposite direction I was headed. However the culprit, I soon realized, had been knocked down from the impact, and was now brushing himself off. The spot where he hit me smarted terribly, and my vision went a little fuzzy as I sat up. My hand brushed against a foreign object and recoiled slightly: a pair of wireframe glasses, which looked like they had seen better days. I curled my fingers around them and extended it towards the guy that knocked me down.

"You dropped these," I informed him. We both stood up almost simultaneously. He was a good few inches taller than me, muscular—no wonder it hurt like hell when he ran into me. He accepted the glasses from me, returning them to their rightful perch on the bridge of his nose.

From behind the glasses, bright blue eyes blinked at me.

"Dude, you should watch where you're going."

"E-excuse me?" I sputtered. I felt raw heat deep within my chest rise up into my throat. The nerve—clearly this bastard didn't think he was at fault. "You just rammed right into me!"

His eyes flickered back and forth, head following suit, searching for something. "You could see me comin' from a mile away." The guy flashed a cocky grin and punched me too hard on the shoulder. "You really shouldn't space out like that."

"Alfred, move your ass!" One of his mates shouted back at him.

Not so much as an apology. I opened my mouth, about to snap at him-Alfred-whatever, when all of a sudden his head jerked to the left, and a look of terror formed on his face. "Oh shit." And he took off running towards the other boys. The malformed sentence came out as a garbled mutter, which was shortly over powered by the shrill, angry cry of a young woman.

"You fuckers get back here _now_!" If possible, the girl in question was sprinting even faster than the three boys before her. She was haphazardly clad in an oversized t-shirt and leggings, with no shoes on, shrieking like a madwoman and tearing up tufts of grass in her trail. However, the most profound thing about her was the long, damp mane of hot pink hair spouting from her head. I had seen a great deal of people with locks representative of every color of the rainbow, but you could tell from the way it was spotty and uneven that it was clearly not an intentional dye job. There were still small patches of brown, mostly near the tips of her hair.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt, I swear I will turn you into a woman. You and your fucking posse—damn it, you sick, twisted bastard!"

Not knowing what to do, I stood there like an idiot with my mouth open, staring at the girl hunt down the pranksters, until I remembered up until that point I was on my way to the library. I glanced down at my watch.

"Fantastic," I mumbled, realizing the fiasco had eaten up my window of opportunity to see the library. With less than three minutes to spare, I changed direction, trudging towards the main building for my appointment. My brief encounter with the guy named Alfred had put me in a terrible mood, and as I trekked inside and up two flights of stairs towards the counselor's office, I silently prayed that I would never have to run into him or those buffoons again.

The interior of the building was lovely: polished wood, framed pictures of alumni and staff. I passed these until I reached the door that read three-oh-six and stopped. I waited for a moment, shifting my weight from foot to foot before giving the door a light knock.

"Come in."

I came face to face with Charles Ferguson; at least that's what the name tag sitting on the desk read. The person behind the desk was a brunette woman with little eyes and a pointed nose, reminding me of a sparrow. She smiled politely and gestured for me to sit down.

"No, I'm not Charles—management decided to move us all around this year and I haven't had time to clean up the office." She said this as if people had been coming into her office all day, accusing her of being Charles Ferguson: which was ludicrous, because Charles Ferguson sounded like the name of someone's grandfather. She leaned back in her chair, swiveling a bit. "I'm Angela Dalton, guidance counselor for twelve years here at Whitmore. How may I guide you today?"

"Er, well, Miss Dalton—"

"Angela is fine."

I cleared my throat. "Okay. Um, to be perfectly honest, I'm only here because my Mum insisted I meet with you, that is, a guidance counselor." She pushed off her desk, turned to her computer and started to type.

"Lessee, you're my twelve-fifteen slot… Arthur Kirkland?" I nodded. She continued to type. "Let me just pull up your information here. Okay. You're majoring in English?"

"That would be correct."

"Alright then," she closed out of her window. With a quick adjustment of her glasses, Angela Dalton folded her hands neatly on her desk and smiled at me. "So, Arthur, seeing as the reason for you being here today is only because of your concerned parent, I won't be keeping you long. Just a few things." I shifted in my seat, taken aback by her very blunt attitude towards the situation. "First off, if you need _actual_ guidance, or have any gripes about the school, talk to me. Second," she paused, straightening a stack of papers and clipping them together. "I don't know what kind of life you lead before coming to college, but I want to stress the importance of this—get out, make friends, enjoy your college experience. You only get to do it once."

I rubbed my arm shyly. "Uhuh."

"We good?"

"I think so."

"Great! Here's my card, if you need anything, set up an appointment with the main office. Or just mosey on by. Good luck with the unpacking." Just as soon as I had found myself wandering into Angela's office, I was walking out. I closed the door quietly behind me, studying the card in my hand before sliding it into an empty holder in my wallet. _Well Mum, _I thought dryly, _you sure know how to pick your guidance counselors. _I didn't think to take Angela's advice seriously; I had assumed she was simply brushing me off, seeing as I had no real business being in her office. It didn't matter. Something told me I wouldn't see her anymore after this. I had carefully planned out all my courses for each semester, all the way up to my senior year. No guidance needed.

When I returned, exhausted and moody, I deflated at the sight of the sea of boxes that appeared to be overflowing from the back of the Jetta. I sighed. Where to start? I should have let Mum drive down with me in retrospect, because now I had to move the entire contents of The Beast into my room without help. I popped the trunk and wrestled a box free, buckling under the weight of it. One glance at me and you could tell I wasn't built to lift so much as a ten pound sack of flour. I was your typical artist-type: pale and slight of frame, the only real strength coming from my fingers, which were constantly tapping out words at a keyboard whenever I felt the urge to do a bit of writing. Natural selection deemed me unfit to lug around heavy objects, yet here I was, staggering under the weight of thirty-something pounds of clothes.

Just then, fate had decided to show me a little kindness.

"Do you need some help?"

Those words had never sounded more comforting.

"Er, thanks but I got it," I replied. I peeked out a little from behind my box. A boy with a similar build to mine and a few inches shorter than me was the one who had just offered me his help. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, which fell back into place just above his shoulder.

"Are you sure? I mean, I know I don't look like much—"

"Well," I tried not to wince under the weight of the box. "I could use the help, thank you."

"Oh, no problem at all," he replied quietly. "Is that your car over there?"

"Yes, the white one."

He returned shortly with another box. Despite being smaller, he seemed to have a better handle on his box than I did on mine. And his was labeled 'books'. I could only imagine how heavy it was. "Ready?"

"Oh. Yeah. My room is on the second floor."

"So is mine," he smiled. We walked into the dorm, which was relatively nice. The main floor had a lounge area with couches and TVs. But before that, I noticed something else.

"No air-conditioning." My tone must have been full of dismay, because my partner spoke to me sympathetically.

"Yeah, the first couple of weeks will be tough. But there's heating, and we get our own bathrooms." There was also no elevator in this dorm, and I felt even better about myself for not being a big television watcher. I wondered how many people had struggled trying to haul their tellies up to the third or fourth floor. "I'm Toris, by the way."

"Arthur," I said.

"What part of England are you from?"

We turned left down the hall, and kept walking until I spotted the number two-eleven. "London, inner city, my family and I moved here the summer after I turned ten." I stopped, and Toris did the same behind me. "This is it." I set my box down and fumbled for my keys.

"I moved here when I was eight," said Toris.

"From where?"

"Lithuania."

"Really?" The door creaked open. The room was small, as expected, and came provided with desks, beds, and drawers. My roommate was nowhere to be seen, but all of his belongings were messily piled up on the bed against the wall. I frowned and shook my head.

"Seems your roommate already moved in," Toris observed and set his load down near the window by the other bed.

"If you can call that mess moving in…"

We spent the next couple of hours dragging my belongings from the car into the dorm, and by the time we finished, both of us were sticky and sweaty from the heat. I caught my reflection in the mirror briefly: straw colored hair plastered against my forehead, a small sweat stain on my shirt. I cringed. My tongue slipped out of my mouth in search of moisture, and I realized at that moment how thirsty I was. I had been sweating from the moment I hopped in my car. I cringed, my lips dried and cracked now.

I took a seat on my bed, which had yet to be covered, and eased back a little. Muscles that I didn't even know I had pulsed in a dull throb. "So," I began to remove my shoes. "Have you met your roommate yet?"

Toris, curiously enough, became flustered, "I already know him. We went to high school together."

"What's he like?"

A wan smile formed on his lips, "Interesting."

"Do you get along?" Toris, still standing, reluctantly sat down in my desk chair and faced towards me. He shrugged a little into his collar and started wringing his hands. His eyes flickered downwards.

"Well, sometimes. Yeah. Mostly," he sighed. "He's…interesting, like I said. It's complicated." I don't know what made the boy feel so uncomfortable, but I didn't feel the need to pry any further. A steady, awkward silence filtered in between us. I wasn't used to having someone around, so I rubbed the back of my neck in uncertainty. "Well, I guess I should take a shower."

"Oh, right," Toris shot up from his seat.

"Thanks for helping out." I walked him to the door. He nodded cheerily, and before stepping out, pointed to his right.

"I'm around the corner next to the stairs, room three-oh-two."

I gave a curt nod. "See you then."

"See you around. Maybe we'll have class together."

"That'd be good," I agreed and waved him goodbye. As soon as Toris left, I exhaled loudly and gave a small stretch, all the muscles in my back complaining. It was about time to take a much needed shower. Preferably cold: I couldn't stand much more of this heat anyways. Over at my side of the room, I carefully wiggled out the box marked "bathroom" and began setting things down, placing toiletries in the cabinets. I hung my towel on a hook behind the door. Back at my bed, I carefully opened up the first box of clothing, and retrieved a clean pair of underwear. Too hot for clothing, I reasoned.

The conditions of the shower were a bit questionable—rusted pipes and an odd, yellow stain on the back wall. I turned the knob and a forceful spray of icy water rushed out. A yelp escaped my lips. Cold, but soothing, I allowed the water to run down my body, flushing out any traces of sweat and head and humidity. I stayed inside until the pads of my fingers resembled raisins. When I got out, the heat seemed less intense than before. I stepped into my boxers, dried my hair off and looped the towel around my neck. The shower had also seemed to ease my tense mood from earlier, flushed it down the drain. I even started humming, a tune from the radio, and practically bounced out of the bathroom.

The scene before me couldn't have been more ironic.

Dirty socks strewn on the floor, with sweaty feet curled around the lip of his bed board sat Alfred the bastard who knocked me over this morning. His large hands were closed tightly around a game controller, teeth clenched and eyebrows furled. I was hit almost instantly with the aroma of feet, and the foul smell of McDonalds, as if the wad of chips in his mouth hadn't been a previous indicator. He glanced up from his game, recognizing me.

"Mmph!" he cried with his mouth full, and swallowed the seven something chips in one gulp. "Hey, it's eyebrows. Wow, that's totally weird. We're roommates now."

My toes gripped the floor, body tensing like a wild animal that had been spotted by a predator. _Why? _I cried helplessly to myself. _Why? Why? Why? No. God no. _

"Woah, you okay? Are you like sick or something?"

Impossibly, inevitably, on that first day of college, I had become the roommate of Alfred F. Jones.

* * *

><p>AN: At the bottom this time! Wooo! (does a jig). How y'all doing? Okay, so I really wanted to do a USUK fic for a long time, and now I am. Hope you guys enjoy this. I needed something else to do while I was writing Comme il Faut, so here it is.

Side note: Arthur will be mixing both English and American terms (cuz I am lazy like that) because he has been exposed to American culture during high school. So yeah…stuff.

Yes there really is a town called Peculiar – except it's in Missouri and it doesn't have a college. I chose Illinois because I am most familiar with this state.

I will attempt to update regularly, but I can't make any promises – the fic is coinciding with my school life, work life, other fan fic, and an RP that I just started doing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

The next morning I found myself frantically knocking on Angela's door.

"Come in," her voice carried through the wood. I stumbled in, flustered and out of breath. There were stacks of boxes and file folders strewn across the desk, like she had been organizing up until the point I burst into her office. Angela looked up from her work, adjusted her glasses and gave a soft smile. "Well, if it isn't Arthur. Back so soon?"

"I need…a room change…" I said intermittently between large breaths. About halfway between my dorm and her office, I had broken into a run. My need was great to be here, to be the first one in her office: Alfred and I could not function together in the same vicinity. We could not be roommates.

Angela's smiled faded. "Is something wrong?"

"It's my roommate—" I sighed, covering my face with a hand and recalled the horrors that occurred the previous night. Angela motioned for me to sit down, shoving aside some of the piles to open up the desk space for conversation. The things he did yesterday: knocking me down, littering the room with his garbage, staying up till nearly three in the morning—just as I would feel myself drifting off, he would violently stir me from my sleep with a loud scream of 'headshot!' or the like.

"I simply cannot live with him."

"Really?"

I nodded. "It's impossible."

"You haven't even been here for more than a day."

"Does it matter? Surely you have singles or other rooms available?"

"We do," said Angela. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth and she flipped a pen into her hand, tapping it loudly against the surface of the desk. An uneasy atmosphere settled in between us. "Those are reserved for students who have difficult situations."

"I am in a difficult situation!"

She stared at me past the bridge of her nose. "You situation is uncomfortable, perhaps. I don't know the details, but unless he's a drug addict or getting physical, I don't see any reason to move you." Angela returned to her work, shuffling papers and jotting down the occasional note. I sat there with my mouth slightly agape, struggling for an argument.

"I really don't think this will work," I stressed. She clicked her pen and closed a folder.

"Arthur, let me tell you something. There will be many times in this world where you will have to put up with people you may not like. These situations are unavoidable. Starting from now, you must deal with the unfortunate hand life has dealt you. And you will deal with this in one form or another for the rest of your life," she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands. "I understand that it might make you upset, uncomfortable, possibly even drive you a bit crazy. But I cannot move you the first day of school. There are other students with other priorities. I'm sorry."

Some part of me broke inside when she spoke those words to me. It must have been apparent in my features, because she studied my face a bit before letting out a drawn sigh. "Come back to me in three weeks. I'll see what I can do for you."

A feeble ray of sunshine in the stormy turmoil of my morning—I practically leapt out of my seat. "Thank you!"

"But," her voice sharply cut through my newfound euphoria. "I strongly encourage you to make an effort to get to know this roommate of yours. Instead of looking for differences, try to find the similarities between the two of you. You might be surprised."

"Er…right." I thanked her again, and after taking several steps out of her office, threw my hands up with a victorious cry. Three weeks of hell, and I could potentially find myself in a dorm room that would be exclusively mine. Just three weeks. _Find similarities? _I thought dryly, smoothing out the wrinkles in my shirt from excessively celebrating. There were no similarities. Finding a similarity between Alfred and I would be like finding that when you mix blue and yellow, it makes fuchsia.

It simple doesn't happen.

Furthermore, there were no surprises in the life of Arthur Kirkland.

Upon returning to my room, at precisely eight forty-five, I happened across a snoring Alfred. My nose wrinkled involuntary, the gurgling sounds from his lips akin to the sound of a jackhammer against concrete. With little haste, I gathered my belongings, sliding them into my book bag one by one and turned to leave. Annoyed, I slammed the door as I left. Behind me came a small choke, pursued by a grunt, and finally a return to the state of sawing lumber.

I walked briskly to my first class, all the while secretly wishing that my thunderous door slam had awoken Alfred from his sleep. It would have been a small bit of revenge for keeping up into the late hours of the night. Morning classes were fine in my book, so long as I was prepared with a full seven hours of sleep (which clearly did not occur), and said class was not a subject I found to be particularly restrictive. I did not fancy maths, and that was my first class of the day. My skills were average at best, and despite my greater need for an orderly existence, I frankly could not stand the exactness and heavily rule-based subject. And while the English grammar was a rule, I was the master of my own words whenever I wrote. There was room for improvement, refinement and it was downright pleasurable to make the most concise and beautiful flow of words.

Some of the trees on campus were starting to change their leaves: massive green bunches dotted with the first yellows, reds, and browns of autumn. The air outside was still uncomfortably hot, but the humidity had died down considerably since the day prior, so it was tolerable. Amidst the landscaping, statues, and other outside décor of the grounds were students hustling to class, or lounging around on park benches or grassy areas. I gazed at them from afar, perhaps longingly, though I wasn't really willing to admit I had felt the need for such companionship. At the very least, someone to have intelligent conversation with would be nice.

The wind blew with the faint traces of wild flowers, just riding under the overwhelming odor of cigarette smoke. Good heavens, I hadn't realized how many college kids smoked until now. Nearly half the people out here were lighting up, either in groups or alone, wafting tails of tobacco fumes drifting into the open sky. My nose crinkled as I passed a near cluster of boys donning brand name clothing and low riding jeans, all of their smoke blowing in my general direction. It was a horrible cliché, but they looked cool. And somehow, I found myself pondering what I looked like to others. This morning I had dressed in khaki pants and a collared shirt (I had decided against the tie at the last minute, which seemed too formal). Yet everyone here was spouting jeans and t-shirts, and even a band of girls were still in their pajamas, books in hand and heading into one of the academic buildings.

The math and science building was by far the nicest and newest structure on campus. Before I came to Whitmore, I read an article about how they had recently finished reconstructing parts of the campus. Obviously this building had taken priority over the others, with its glossy interior, wide windows and lush new carpeting. The interior of my class, I soon discovered, was clean to the point of being sterile: a lecture hall with white wash walls, freshly polished wooden desks. About half of the chairs still had tags attached to them.

I took up residence in the center of the hall, three rows back, and set my book bag down on the table. There were a few other students in the room, but they were situated in the back. I smoothed out my shirt and sat down, preparing my desk space for note taking. As the clock steadily approached nine, more and more students began filing in. Groups of friends sat in clusters, and single entries filled in empty seats a seat away from occupied ones. Not to my surprise, I had one unoccupied seat to my right when the professor walked in.

"Alright, settle down." My bottom lip twitched. There was hardly any noise in the room to begin with. The man set his briefcase down on the desk next to the podium, and adjusted his glasses before filing through his belongings. His features gave the impression that he was well into his sixties: graying hair, wrinkled skin. With a hacking cough, he snapped his briefcase shut and took to the podium with a shaking hand full of papers. "This is the syllabus for the course." He took slow steps towards the corner seat and handed the stack to the student there—a bright-eyed girl with a pixie hair cut, and the papers made their way around the room.

"I expect you to come to class prepared with all the materials. Read the syllabus on your own time. Take notes. Study. But most of all," he rasped, and his thick eyebrows, possibly thicker than my own (that was a feat), narrowed. "Be on time for class. Good? Very well. Let's start from chapter one." He turned to the board and began writing out a rather complicated problem. I took out a very sharp pencil and began to jot down the equation. Halfway into his lecture about hyperbolas, the very obvious sound of a door banging against a wall disrupted the professor.

"Sorry I'm late! I overslept!" I recognized the voice immediately. Clad in the same bed shirt and a sloppy pair of jeans stood Alfred in the doorway, grinning like an idiot and waving at the professor. "It won't happen again!"

I seriously doubted that. The professor harrumphed and continued on, as if he had never been interrupted in the first place. The blond ran a hair through his bead head and glanced around for an empty seat—fuck! That was the one next to me. My frustration levels were on a steady rise upwards, worsened by the fact that Alfred recognized me and plopped down to my right with a haughty laugh.

"Hey roomie, how's it goin'?" His voice tore through the droning of the lecture, and the light hum of quieted chartering amongst friends. As I further investigated, it seemed apparent that no one was paying attention to the teacher. I sighed.

"I am trying to learn math."

His lips puckered. "You're never gonna do it this way dude." He slapped me on the shoulder and I felt all the muscles in my body contract at once. His eyes danced around periodically, then fixated on my syllabus. Before saying, "Mind if I borrow this?" Alfred already held the paper in his hands.

"…help…yourself," I said through clenched teeth.

"Blah, blah, boring stuff, blah, stuff I know, book, stuff, okay—" his hand gripped the paper tightly, forming large crinkles in its previously immaculate smoothness. "Nothing exciting. Duh—when are syllabuses ever?" he tossed it back to me, and stretched forward on his desk, resting his chin on the hard surface of the wood with a thump.

_Control, Arthur. _I reminded myself in a cool voice, but my face was heated and my hands were shaking. If I believed in luck, which I don't, it would seem that it had been getting progressively worse in the short duration of my life here.

"Wake me if he gets angry, mkay?" Alfred buried his face into the desk and with a great breath; his back rose and fell into a sleepy sigh.

_He…came all the way here just to sleep… _I resisted the strong urge not to pick up my text book and crack him upside the head with it. Of all the things—he could have at least bothered to skip this class, and left me in peace. Thinking of class brought my attention back to the board, where the professor had just erased the equation I was copying. "Damn," I muttered, and flipped to a clean page of my notebook, sighing.

The class period seemed to drag on forever. And not because maths was a least favorite subject of mine, nor was it because the professor spoke with a monotonous voice that could give Mr. Spock a run for his money, but because Alfred seemed to be the subject of my undivided attention—a constant annoyance. After he decided he could not nap, he began making extravagant doodles on the table space in front of him (he hadn't bothered to bring a notebook). Then he proceeded to cram a piece of gum into his mouth and began chomping on it. He made loud conversation with the others around us, played table football with his knitted hat wearing neighbor using his gum wrapper, and generally disrupted my every train of thought. Just when I firmly believed I could not stand another minute more, the clock struck eleven and the room was filled with the sound of shuffling papers and book bags.

"Thank God," I breathed. My body slackened slightly, and I leaned back in my chair with relief.

"Hey Artie-"

My head jerked around to the irksome nickname. Alfred was standing next to me, slouching with hands in his pockets. I began to pick up my belongings. "My name is _Arthur_-"

"Yeah sure. Can I borrow you notes?"

I dropped the textbook I was holding. It fell to the ground with a resounding thud.

"You're joking?"

He perched an eyebrow. "Uh, no not really." My blood was boiling now. I hastily snatched up my fallen textbook.

"No." His mouth opened to object, but I had already slung my bag over my shoulder and marched up the stairs. Fucking idiot. What on earth had caused his malformed brain to think it was perfectly acceptable to ask for notes after goofing of an entire class session? I hurried out the building, stepping out into the late morning air and blinked back the uncomfortable rush of sunlight. How long could I put up with this? My legs wandered over to a nearby ledge, and settled down on my makeshift seat. Never had I thought of myself as short tempered, but Alfred seemed to strike every nerve at the right moment, as if all those years wasted on video games had somehow unlocked ability to find the weak spots in people too.

A loud rumble from my stomach interceded my worrying and I perked up a bit, licking my dry lips. One class couldn't be so bad. In fact, if I made sure to sit between two people every day, I wouldn't even have to deal with that moron. With that in mind, I headed off to the cafeteria for some lunch.

* * *

><p>The cafeteria food was surprisingly edible.<p>

I had heard the horror stories about college cafeterias, how they would turn perfectly good raw ingredients into un-chewable, tasteless lumps, but as I took a nervous bite of my spaghetti, I found it to be quite flavorful. There were even some mushrooms and broccoli mixed in, and the sauce had a touch of spice to it. I was seated alone at the far wall of the cafeteria, working through a math problem and taking long sips of hot tea (with tea I couldn't complain about much else).

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Hm?" My eyes swerved off an algorithm up to the voice, lips broadened a tad when the person came into view. "Ah, Toris. Yes please sit down."

Toris nodded politely and set down his tray: a bowl of soup, a roll, and a cup of fruit. His hair was disheveled, as if he had been running a nervous hand through it constantly for an entire class period. His eyes flickered down to his food, then back up to my face. "How are classes?"

"I only had maths so far." I felt myself grimace. "Not my best subject."

"That's a shame. I don't really like math either. I get by though."

"I prefer English."

"Me too," he tore a bit of his roll and nibbled on it. "That's my major."

"Really? You aren't taken creative writing-"

"-with Devries this afternoon? Yes," he added cheerfully. I returned the smile. We chattered on about our favorite books, and exchanged stories about high school English classes.

"I remember this one class," Toris poked his fork around a blueberry. "It was a creative writing class, in fact. You know how the teachers used to have us read each other's papers? Well I got this story from this one particular girl, to summarize the plot-"

"-was it bad?"

Toris snickered. "Worse. She wrote about how she wanted pudding one day really badly and went to the grocery story. Every other word was misspelled."

"I think I top you," I said, grimacing at the explanation of the girl's writing. "Mary Jean—she switched tenses every paragraph, no sense of structure. Used internet speak. The story is about how her boyfriend cheats on her, then he gives her fried chicken and she is happy again."

We both break into fits of laughter. "Sounds terrible!"

"I know right? Even her writing was littered with 'like' every five words—"

"OH. MY. GAWD."

Something, or rather someone, came speeding towards the table, cutting off our conversation. A pink sweater engulfed Toris, practically strangling him. Affixed under the sweater was a short skirt, which flounced up and down as the wearer continuously bounced. I stared at the girl; my face screwed up for a moment, and concentrated a little harder.

It wasn't a girl.

"Toris—I have been, like, looking forever! I totally found this super adorable thing online and I want you to see it! Come ooooooooon." She—he…I _still_ couldn't decide, giggled into Toris' ear and pressed a kiss to his temple. I felt my face flare up with heat, cheeks burning a bright red. The creature tossed it's mane of blond hair, an arm still smothering my dining companion. "Oh, who's this?"

"Feliks—" Apparently it was a _he_ after all. "—p-please, would you cut that out?"

"Cut _what _out?" Feliks pouted.

"I can't…breathe…" The blond, instead of letting go, draped both arms loosely around his shoulders, resting a chin on his head. "That's a little better." Toris caught my gaze and flushed, looking away. "Yeah. Um. I sort of didn't mention that…uh, well."

"He's gay," Feliks said very nonchalantly. "Possibly bi-curious, but for now, he's mine." A coy smile formed on his face. "I'm his boyfriend Feliks by the way. It's like, a pleasure to meet you."

"Ah, n-nice to meet you as well." I didn't harbor ill feelings towards homosexuals, not in the slightest, but the whole notion did come as a shock to me. That is, I never would have expected Toris to be gay. He didn't seem like the type. Feliks plopped down next to Toris and started to pick off his plate.

"So Cory and I totally met up with Lizzie last night and she said the first LGBT club meeting is like, this Friday at Min Tea, and we need more members, so you have to, have to, _have to_ come okay?" Feliks stressed this and turned to me. "You too! You play for our team, right?"

"Sorry?" What was he talking about? Teams?

Feliks bit into a strawberry. "You're totes fabulous right?"

"Uh…"

"Stop superimposing your sexuality onto other people," Toris groaned and covered his face in his hand. Oh! He thought I was gay. As this suddenly occurred to me, I nearly choked on my tea. A cough ripped through my lungs, feebly attempting to rid my airway of Earl Gray.

"I-I'm not—" I blurted out, unable to even say the word. Feliks watched me with curious, large eyes. Several more coughs later and I cleared my throat, which was still burning. "I'm not."

"My gaydar is _never_ wrong."

"Feliks—" Toris frowned.

"Are you like, sure? Have you even had a girlfriend?"

My face screwed up a bit. "Yes. Two in fact…in high school," I mumbled this into my salad, nudging an olive off the side of the plate onto a napkin. Rosie hadn't been my girlfriend so much as my first kiss. I had been standing outside of school waiting for my mum to pick me up. It had been late and chilly—both of us had just gotten out of newspaper club. We were sitting on the steps talking about something unimportant, when she leaned her head forward and forced our lips together. I always held the notion that kisses were something wonderful, perhaps magical, like in a movie where the actress' foot pops up or the instant your lips meet, you see fireworks. Rosie's kiss had been wet, very wet—I could almost feel the spittle that she left in the corner of my mouth even now. Girls were also supposed to, I dunno, taste nice. Or like nothing, but the strong flavor of cafeteria nachos had been well embedded inside her mouth, leaving an acrid aftertaste in mine. Back then I didn't know what to do, and so after several weeks of going about my business, she made a big scene in the newspaper room about how I didn't call her or whatever she wanted. We never spoke after that.

Amy was the second girl I kissed. We dated for two weeks. She was a torched soul, full of teen angst and a purse full of black nail polish and dark make-up. By the beginning of the first week of our relationship, she had wanted to move "past first base" and so I found myself in her basement, vacant except for us, watching some tripe comedy and her sitting on top of my lap with her tongue down my throat. She always wore her dark hair down in front of her face, and so between kisses I would get the occasional mouth full of her fine locks.

"You can touch them…if you like." I remember her saying before I reached out a very nervous hand and patted her chest, as if I were petting someone's pet cat instead of a pair of knockers. As I recall, there hadn't been anything sensual about it. We were probably both too inexperienced. I remember she made a few attempts to grope me through my pants, her slender fingers fumbling around with my crotch with no success at getting me hard. Amy eventually gave up and a few days later broke up with me saying "it just wasn't going to work out."

As the memories flashed by, Felkis watched my face, nodding, as if he could read my mind. "Closet case," he deemed and sucked down a grape. He turned very suddenly and waved a frantic arm. "Cory, were totally over here!"

A third member joined us at the table, and I shifted in my seat, becoming somewhat uncomfortable with the steadily growing amount of people. Cory had short brown hair, about the same in color as Toris, and was dressed in a skin tight shirt and ratty jeans.

"Is Feliks _like, totally_ scaring the new kid?" he jokingly asked Toris, whom replied with a stiff nod. Feliks' cheeks puffed up in annoyance and he folded his arms across his chest. "So what's his story?"

_I'm right here, you know._

"Closet-"

"My name is Arthur Kirkland, I am a freshman and I just met Toris a day ago and Feliks in the past half an hour," I blurted out before Feliks had deemed me a 'closet case' once more. The blond in question simply cracked a grin, and Cory stared at me.

"Alright then," he said with raised eyebrows. But my awkward outburst didn't seem to faze him entirely. "Is he joining the club?"

"Er. I-I'm not sure. I mean, I wasn't thinking about-"

"You don't have to be gay to join," Cory smiled as he said this, his lip ring wiggling a bit. "We have straight people who attend. Besides, we mostly meet at the café anyways because there's always a music group or poetry reading."

Poetry reading? My interest was piqued suddenly, "I guess. If I'm not too busy with studies…"

"Studying? Really?" Cory laughed a little, and patted me on the shoulder. I involuntarily flinched. Two guesses as to whom to thank for that reflex… "You need to get out, man. Experience life." He jabbed a thumb to point as his chest. "When I was a freshman, I pretty much failed my first semester. Oh yeah, I got in with scholarships and had honors and did all that shit back in high school, but I let loose here eventually." Cory started to steal food from Toris' plate as well. "I got in fucking trouble, yeah, but everything's okay now. You need a balance."

In my head, I could already hear my mother's troubled voice warning me against being around Cory or people like him—be good Arthur, don't do drugs Arthur, surround yourself with responsible people, Arthur. But Cory couldn't be all that bad, I mean, he had gotten himself some scholarships. And he was an honors student too.

"Anyone up for a smoke?" Cory withdrew a pack of American Spirits and his lighter.

"You know I don't," Toris said with a shake of his head. Feliks refused as well, which made Cory's head turn towards me. I waved a dismissive hand. Cory shrugged, bouncing out of his seat and stuffed the cigarette between his lips. "Well alright then—see you kids later."

"Interesting fellow," I commented and chewed a bit of my food.

Feliks laughed a little. "You don't know the half of it."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Coming from Feliks of all people, perhaps I didn't want to know the half of it. I ate the rest of my lunch in silence, and Feliks tagged along behind us as Toris and I headed off to our creative writing class. We reached the outside of the building within a short time. Without so much as a warning, Feliks wrapped his arms around Toris' neck, angled his head and kissed him. My mouth fell open, and I inclined my vision downwards, as to avoid further looking at the pair. Yet, my eyes would periodically flicker upwards, each glance making my blush deepen. My ears caught the sound of their lips smacking together and I mulled over as to how appropriate it was for them to be kissing like this in public.

"Mmph-okay, enough I have to get to class-" Toris' voice was cut off by another audible kiss. "-Feliks-"

"Okay, okay," Feliks laughed. I assumed it was safe to look up now. I lifted my gaze, and it shot straight back to a patch of dirt I had taken interested in at the beginning of the kissing episode. They were still locked in an embrace, foreheads touching, giggling. I cleared my throat with an unnecessary loudness, and at last I heard Feliks trot away. With a sigh I looked up and Toris was standing alone, looking almost as equally embarrassed as I was.

"S-sorry."

I shook my head. "No…er, it's alright. I just," I swallowed, feeling my stomach churning. "Not used to it I guess."

"No I get it," Toris laughed nervously. I scratched the back of my neck, and we made our way to class. I didn't mean to offend him—there was just something terribly off about the whole situation. I couldn't look, and yet I couldn't help from looking. The dull pang of a headache began to form in my temples and I shook the thoughts from my head.

* * *

><p>"Alright guys, give me a second-"<p>

The teacher entered the room promptly when the class time started. Unlike this morning, the classroom looked more like a classroom and less like a lecture hall—perhaps twenty five students sat in short rows, each sharing a long table. I was seated next to Toris, notebook ready. The professor shuffled around, sifting through a stack of papers and peeking occasionally at the computer on the podium.

He clasped his hands together. "Alright. I'm Gregory Devries. As for how you address me, I'm pretty much down with anything except 'hey you'; I want this semester to be fun for you guys, and a bit of a break from your regular classes. Although I will say that I will try to push you guys a little bit out of your comfort zone." He reached into his bag and set something down on the table, which resounded with a small clang. "Lucky me my wife is quiet the baker and she made a batch or two of brownies today. Go ahead and help yourself while I set up."

A series of reluctant glances were exchanged throughout the room, until one slightly overset girl walked the length of the room and plucked a brownie out of the dish returning to her seat. More people followed suit, until everyone in the room was munching contently on the rich, chocolate dessert.

Professor Devries chuckled. "Well now that that's settled, let's get started." He uncapped a marker and began to scrawl on the board. "So," he turned from the board, capping the marker and read the question aloud. "What makes a great story?"

My hand immediately shot up, but he called on a fellow a couple of rows over.

"You there."

"Uh…um…" The guy stuck a finger in his ear, cleaning it out a bit. I felt myself gag. "It…it's interesting."

The teacher winced, but gave an energetic nod. "Okay…great." He wrote that on the board. "Anything else?"

My hand returned to the air, and I was called on. "A great story entails a lot of things: for instance, the flow of the sentence structure. A subtle, single word can greatly impact the quality of a story. Characters should be well rounded, and _believable._ Not some tripe one-dimensional Mary Sue, and-"

"I'm going to cut you off right there," Professor Devries laughed, halting my voice with a wave of his hand. "Save some for the rest of the class, and my hand can only scrawl so much at once." He added my comments in short, and continued to pick on the rest of the class, even those without their hands raised. People began chattering, even moving into heated disputes about stories and their qualities. I smiled to myself, and set my pencil down, enjoying the atmosphere of the room as began bubbling with intelligent conversation.

By the time class was over, everyone in the room seemed brimming with enthusiasm and energy. Professor Devries was brilliant, to say the least. Toris and I were grinning madly as we walked back to our dormitory. The afternoon heat was starting to recede. The air stirred, blowing the hot scent of cigarette ash into our path.

"So our assignment," said Toris, "is to pick a favorite book and write a short essay about it. What are you going to choose?"

"Not sure. I mean, there are a lot of great novels out there. Even ones that necessarily my favorite, yet are still well written." I licked my lips, my head buzzing with thoughts. "I think I might want to do Dorian Gray."

"Oscar Wilde? Excellent choice," my companion beamed.

By the time I returned to my dorm, my high had dropped dramatically, and I hesitated before turning the knob to my room. The sight before me made me scowl: Alfred lying on his stomach with his eyes glued to his television screen, the floor littered with empty KFC containers. He didn't seem to notice that I had entered. I padded over to his television, staring angrily once more at the mess and swiftly pressed the power switch.

"Dude-what the hell is your problem?" Alfred's voice shot up an octave, voice cracking. He pointed at the set with his controller. "I was in the middle of picking up a hooker!"

I scowled. "And I wish to study. In an environment that is quiet and orderly. Pick up your bloody trash and put some headphones on." Honestly, how was this kid raised? Evidently it was a poor quality job; he had absolutely no respect whatsoever.

I anticipated a snappy comeback, but Alfred merely sighed, setting his controller down. "Ya could have asked nicely." He began collecting his garbage and tossed it, my eyes widening in shock. I raised an eyebrow, body still angled towards my desk as I set my bag down. Alfred opened his drawer, fumbled around for a moment, and retrieved a set of headphones. Without another word, he sat back down and returned to his game. _Quietly_.

At least I could do my work now. I took up residence at my desk, but as I began my studying I found myself unable to concentrate. Despite our initial encounter, Alfred hadn't really been snappy or angry, merely obnoxious, loud, and perhaps a little insensitive. And I hadn't bothered to ask nicely: because it was a simple matter that I hadn't anticipated he would actually take my request into consideration.

After of scribbling down logarithms for an hour, I heard Alfred stir from his spot. The rustling of clothing made my head turn, and I was met with the sight of my roommate, bare-chested. Flustered, I turned away. Just stripping without giving me so much as a warning. When the rustling stopped, I turned again. Alfred had tidied himself up a bit: a clean shirt and a new pair of slacks.

"Going out with my friends—I'll be back later."

"Right, see you."

"Yeah.

He slammed the door behind him, and from the inside of the room I could hear the muffled voice of one of his companions. They chattered on, voices softening as they distanced themselves from the room. The last words I heard from Alfred's lips caught me off guard, and I felt my heart sink as he spoke them.

"I just don't understand why he hates me so much."

Did I hate him? I didn't know. I almost fell into the bad habit of chewing on my pencil—the eraser was pressed against my lips, and I jerked it away. Maybe…maybe Angela did have a point. I snorted abruptly, but somehow I couldn't help the feeling that was bothering me.

Because when it boiled down to it, I don't think I could bring myself to _hate_ someone: Even someone as irksome as Alfred.

* * *

><p>AN: End chapter two! Okay, so I am probably going to be very slow with updates: my studies are killing me, and my job (I work in retail) will become steadily insane as we approach the Christmas season (for the love of all that is right in this world, they already have CHRISTMAS stuff out) guh. Anyways I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'm thinking this story will be about 20 chapters or so long, provided I can keep myself inspired to write. As of now, my USUK high is stemming from a story called American Dreams in an English Village. If you haven't read this, DISGRACE AND DISHONOR ON YOU! It is like, the fanfiction of USUK fanfics. Go read it, and stop bothering with my tripe until you catch up.

Oh and, don't think they're going to get buddy-buddy next chapter—shit has yet to hit the fan.


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